we are not perfect, but we'll learn from our mistakes
by WriterorWhatever
Summary: Paris tries to make coffee for Rory with horrible results. Set sometime after season seven but the Revival doesn't exist here. Based on a request from an anon on tumblr.


Summary:

Paris tries to make coffee for Rory with horrible results.

Set sometime after season seven but the Revival doesn't exist here.

Based on a request from an anon on tumblr.

Notes: The title is from the song I Choose You by Sara Bareilles, who is an icon, and the song fits super well with this piece.

Rory woke up to a half-empty bed. Paris's side was cold, so she'd been up for a while, which, with Paris, could be a sign of disaster. She dragged herself out of bed and into the kitchen for coffee, since any instance of Paris being up before seven was a situation that required a fully caffeinated Rory. Well, to be fair, any waking situation required a fully caffeinated Rory. What she found, upon her entrance to the kitchen, was not an empty kitchen with an empty coffee pot ready to be filled, but, rather, a sink full of batter covered dishes, the smell of burnt pancakes, an overflowing gurgling coffee pot, and a disheveled Paris at the center of it all.

"Paris, love, what are you doing?" She stepped forward and turned off the burner underneath the pan with the very burnt and very foul smelling pancake while Paris continued to fight with the coffee maker.

"Making breakfast, Gilmore, what else?" She gave up on trying to find the off button on the coffee maker and just unplugged it, rather forcefully, causing it to tip over. The glass coffee pot fell free of it's spot in the coffee machine and fit the tile floor of their apartment kitchen.

Rory bent down to start picking up the larger glass pieces, while Paris stood rooted in her spot, glaring at the spot on the counter which once housed their coffee maker. "Yes, but neither of us knows how to cook."

Paris didn't answer, just kept glaring while Rory continued to pick up the large chunks of glass. When she rose up and went to throw the glass pieces away, Paris jumped into action, like someone hit the play button on a movie that had been paused. She opened the cupboard door under the sink for Rory, so she could throw the glass away in the Tardis shaped trash can that Rory bought at a Goodwill and Paris shunned to a life hidden away from the sights of anyone who might come to visit by putting it under the sink. Then, after the big pieces of glass were dealt with, Paris went to get the little hand broom that they kept in the coat closet by the front door. "Why in God's name do we not have a _real_ broom in this household?" She said when she returned and got onto her hands and knees to sweep up the rest of the small pieces of glass.

"Because you said that between the weekly cleaning service and your hatred for messes, we'd never have a need for an actual broom."

"So not the point, Gilmore."

"You're right, it's not. The real question is why were you trying to cook?"

"Because," Paris said, still sweeping, still avoiding eye contact with Rory.

"Because you _wanted_ to experience a small scale apocalypse from the comfort of our own kitchen?" Rory was making light, because she could see that Paris was getting frustrated, both with her refusal to drop the cooking issue and because of their stupid hand broom. "Because you know that neither of us possesses not even a drop of culinary talent, but you needed to make sure?" Because-"

"No. Because I wanted today to be special," Paris interrupted what Rory was sure would have been a Lorelai-level ramble. Her interruption lead to silence that was only filled by the sounds of Paris throwing away the last of the glass.

"But why? It's not our anniversary or anything." Rory was genuinely surprised by her declaration because Paris wasn't really into the whole _romantic gestures_ thing, that was more Rory's wheelhouse, unless it was 'demanded by the social norms,' as she so often put it. Which meant that they went to fancy dinners on Valentine's Day or their anniversary or one of their birthdays, but, otherwise, they were just _Rory and Paris_ , nothing fancy or special, which, for the record, Rory loved. But why was today different?

"Because," Paris took a deep breath and grabbed Rory's hands, "I wanted to ask you to marry me and have a nice morning in bed with food and coffee and sex and sappy sentiments, because I know you love when I talk mushy to you, but now it's ruined."

"You wanted to ask me to _marry_ you?" Rory was so surprised, she figured that this, living together, being together, but not married, was what Paris would want, but, then, she goes and surprises her, just like she always does.

"Well, I did, but, obviously, from that response, it isn't a mutual feeling, so forget I said anything." Paris dropped her hands and turned away, starting on the dirty dishes in the sink.

Rory put a hand on her shoulder. "I do want it. I just thought you wouldn't. I mean, we've never discussed it. I just thought you were happy the way we are. I'd love to marry you, Paris."

Paris turned around, and the open vulnerability on her face reminded Rory of the time she showed up at her house needing help on what to wear for her date with Tristan, she looked so young and lost and hopeful. "You do?"

"Yes, absolutely, yes."

"Thank god," and then Paris was kissing her, hard and hungry and tinged with the happiness that Paris obviously felt, and Rory met it with every bit of happiness she had over it. She was getting married to her best friend, the love of her life; she couldn't be happier.

When they broke for air, Rory was back to her usual quipping self. "So, you got a ring for me, Geller?"

"Of course, why would you take me for anything less than a proper gentleman," Paris mocked back, hand over her chest in mock-offense. She did turn around and open the cupboard and pull a ring box out.

Rory couldn't help herself, she laughed. "Behind the decaf coffee, a place I would never look. Brilliant."

"I'd like to think so," Paris said as she turned back to Rory and open the ring box. "So, will you marry me, Rory Gilmore?"

"On one condition."

"And what would that be?"

"Never try to make breakfast again."

"I think that can be arranged."


End file.
